


Glitter, Gold Are All the Same

by thegrumblingirl



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, UNCLE is endgame, but the way there is a little... bumpy, playing with the timeline a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:39:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5366840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In East Berlin, the plan was to grab Gaby and get out. The plan was to kill the giant Russian in the tiny car who moved faster than his shadow. In short, the plan failed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All for you to know my name

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Solo's first mission in East Berlin is still to retrieve Gaby Teller -- but it's to deliver her to Waverly in the first place, the Vinciguerra Affair is only a speck on the horizon at this point. But that doesn't mean that our two favourite most effective agents can't already be plenty peeved at each other.
> 
> Title and chapter titles inspired by Jessica Greenfield's _Pretty Little Thing_ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFR7xE33kjs). In fact, I blame this entire fic on that song.

In East Berlin, the plan was to grab Gaby and get out. The plan was to kill the giant Russian in the tiny car who moved faster than his shadow. In short, the plan failed. Oh, he got Gaby out alright, the mouthy mechanic with the driving skills to rival any racing champion Solo had seen on the tracks of Monte Carlo; and delivered her to an MI–6 man named Waverly. Something about her Nazi father, Solo hadn't been supplied with details. But while the Trabbi the Russian had pursued them in had indeed ended up in a junkyard, the KGB agent therein had apparently neither bought a farm nor kicked the bucket. Solo sighed as he breathed in the warm air of summer in Budapest, well aware of his tall, blond shadow. A shadow that still insisted on the most hideous of fashion faux pas, Solo noted with exasperation. If he weren't here to kill him, again, Solo would very much like to have a word with him about the state of that bow tie.

Back in Berlin, Illya hadn't been unconscious for long, but for long enough to allow the girl and that ridiculous American to get away. Peeling himself out of the cramped car, he took a moment to breathe and clear his head. He checked the time. He'd been out for ten minutes. He listened for any distant car engines, commotion in the streets. There was nothing. They were gone. He kicked the wheel cap lying a few metres away, sending it hurtling across the barren ground. He would still try to find them, pick up their scent, at least find out how they'd escaped. But he would return to Moscow empty-handed. Absently, he swiped his thumb over the face of his father's watch.

* * *

On the third day in Budapest, Solo realised he'd lost his shadow. Perplexed, he actually had to keep himself from turning around and searching the area with his eyes, uncertain if he'd prefer his instincts were failing him. Projecting to the outside world the image of the charming, unforgettable and yet entirely immemorable American businessman, he let the crowd swallow him up again.

The Russian stayed gone. When, two days later, Solo was accosted and nearly throttled by a slightly less tall and nowhere near as angry-looking KGB agent, he was far too busy surviving to have time for a smirk. After the mission was complete and Sanders had finally stopped badgering him about all the art collections he could look at but not _touch_ , Solo allowed himself a bit of schadenfreude at the fact that his Russian counterpart had obviously acted beyond his brief in coming after him. Whoever had pulled him out of Budapest had done so swiftly and efficiently — in other words, with considerable political influence.

Solo had, of course, done his research. He knew that the Russian's name was Illya Kuryakin, born July 25, 1931 in Moscow. His father had been a high-ranking party official under Stalin's rule, and the family had lived a good life. But then, Kuryakin Sr. had been caught embezzling party funds. The timeline was unclear, but the boy couldn't have been older than eight when his father was sent to the gulag. As soon as he'd been old enough, he'd joined the Russian army and then the intelligence service, becoming one of their best field agents within three years. Solo couldn't help but wonder what part the family's shame and humiliation played in that. At least Solo had committed the crimes he was serving time with the CIA for, himself.

In any case, the CIA could be assured of one thing. If the Russians sent Kuryakin, it was because they wanted the job done and the corrupt Western _shpiona_ dead.

 

Illya clenched his teeth, tapping his left index finger against his right arm as he crossed his arms defensively. Oleg's office held so much lovely furniture just waiting to be smashed to pieces, but he kept himself in check. Barely. Compounding the humiliation of being summoned like a mongrel pup with letting the red mist descend right in the heart of the KGB headquarters was a mistake Illya refused to make.

He knew he shouldn't have gone to Budapest on a hunch, but he had also never received a direct order not to. That was what he told himself as Oleg sat down across from him, his face the same smarmy mask as always.

“You're walking a tight rope, Kuryakin,” his commanding officer informed him. “You know as well as I do that you're one of the best we have, but there are things agents do that plant seeds of doubt.” Oleg let that sink in for a moment, regarding Illya with an expression that he must have thought of as paternal. “There are things that I cannot protect you from, things I wouldn't have to consider were it not for your father.” There it was. “Go where we tell you to, do what we tell you to, and we will not have to have this conversation again.”

Illya knew it was best to take these reminders of the short leash he was on in silence, take them and swallow the bile rising in his throat, push it down and let it fester until he found a desk to break, or a neck. But not today.

“The Americans are up to something.” He dare not speak of the American, singular, he'd followed, blindly.

“Which is why we're giving you this new assignment.” Oleg pulled a pack of files from his desk drawer. Five files in total, differing in thickness and amount of coffee stains indicating how many desks they had touched on the way here. (The more stains, the more top secret. Illya would appreciate the irony if he had the time.) The top file had only few stains and a few dog ears. Lifting the cover, he was met with a familiar face.

Only barely checking his surprise, Illya looked up at Oleg. “He is my new assignment?” Against his will, he felt his pulse speed up.

Oleg's face twisted into a patronising smile. “Not him. But any mission the Americans are sending him on. You're right, they're up to something, and we want to know what. But, Illya,” Oleg leaned forward in his comfortable chair. “Stay away from him. Shadow him, if necessary, but do not make contact. Gather as much information as possible, but do _not_ engage Napoleon Solo.”


	2. Sparkle Like a Cheap Champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, Illya was reinstated as Solo’s shadow. ‘They're watching everybody,’ became, ‘they're watching you, Solo, and why they haven't killed you yet, we just don't know.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! I have all the remaining chapters finished, sitting on my hard drive now, so I can post one every few days. After this, there's two more coming.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this one! A huge thank-you to everyone who's left comments, kudos, or bookmarks on the first chapter! <3

And so, Illya was reinstated as Solo’s shadow. ‘They're watching everybody,’ became, ‘they're watching you, Solo, and why they haven't killed you yet, we just don't know.’

The first time, in Oslo, Solo spent the entirety of the mission with a cold blue-eyed stare boring into his skull from a distance. The Russian was good, Solo gave him that, but a career in spotting spotters and casually observing security rotations and guard patrol schedules left Solo singularly incapable of not noticing the Red Peril dogging his heels. (At least it also left him singularly capable of giving him the slip.)

And there was no way Kuryakin did not know that.

Once he was back from Norway, Solo hesitated to bring up his concerns with Sanders, who was undoubtedly aware of the situation and just had not yet chosen to say anything about it to Solo, but his curiosity won out.

“They're not being subtle about it.”

“Did Kuryakin interfere?”

“No. He had plenty of opportunity to take a shot at me before I lost him after breakfast every morning, but he didn't. And he didn't sabotage the deal, either.”

Sanders mulled this over for a minute.

His training (and instincts of self-preservation) told Solo that he should ask if the Russian should be terminated.

Somehow, it didn't seem like the right thing to do.

Sanders gave no such order, merely told him to watch his back.

“It's my front I'm worried about,” Solo quipped, earning him an eye roll and a wave of dismissal. Next destination: Madrid.

* * *

There he was again, sitting two tables behind Solo at a tiny corner café. Practically close enough to talk, if not to touch. Solo wondered why the Russian would make such an obvious mistake — unless it wasn't a mistake at all. Had he been authorised to make contact? Surely not.

Solo mentally shook himself. He’s doing this to screw with me, he scolded himself and clenched his jaw against the grimace that attempted to escape. The last thing he needed the Russian to see was Solo wincing at his own foolishness. He had to focus on the mission, block out everything else. Even the way the tall man had to fold himself into the small wooden chair, even the way his legs were so long his knees were practically level with his chest when he crossed them, as Solo (absolutely dispassionately) observed via the reflection in the café window.

Still, this lack of distance was risky, seeing as there could be no doubt they both knew who the other was, and why they were here. Well, at least one of them. Solo could only wonder why the CIA would trust him to shake off his tail every damn day rather than just telling him to get rid of him before he became a security risk. Or more of one. Solo was only too aware of the fact that the longer he let this go on, he himself was becoming a liability rather than an asset. With a suppressed sigh, he finished his coffee and set about losing Kuryakin in the crowd.

Illya ground his teeth as he let Solo slip away. He did gather some intel on what the Americans wanted with one of the foremost experts in fuel technology in Spain (and the world), but there was a limit to how far he could follow the agent. Too close, they would send a hitman, probably even Solo himself. And then, when he would likely fail, an entire squad of assassins. Illya wouldn't have enough peace to run a proper operation for _months_. No, that was out of the question. Oleg had told him this.

Also — too close, and he would end up interfering, and interfering with whatever deals the CIA had someone like Solo making would inevitably mean getting shot at. Or, worse, having to talk to him.

Solo’s voice had so far only reached him in murmurs, snatches of conversation with border patrols far across the street; mostly too far away to really hear. Illya had requested permission to bug the American’s hotel room in Madrid, but had been denied. And so, he was left with the impression of a voice: deep, resonant, and embarrassingly smooth. Illya expected nothing else from a corrupt imperialist spy. A thief, no less, charming his way through conning the rich out of their jewellery. (Not that Illya couldn’t at least appreciate that. A little.) But that was before he’d been caught and forced into working for the CIA as a way of commuting his sentence. Illya could understand that someone like Solo would do anything to get out of prison, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Solo was as competitive about being an agent as about being a high society… what was it the Americans called them? Burglar cats. Cat burglars. Illya frowned at the paper he was studiously and judiciously not not reading. What a silly expression. Solo had neither a tail, nor whiskers. Watching Solo slink away from his table, however, Illya was struck by the thought that perhaps the expression wasn’t so poorly judged after all.

There was Madrid, then Bucharest, then Vienna, then Helsinki. Illya had, by now, spent weeks of his life alternately frowning at the American’s lack of sense to dress for Finnish winter and realizing why exactly the CIA had been so keen on having Solo working for them. Or, rather, whoring himself out. Both Bucharest and Vienna turned out to be highly uncomfortable honey trap missions — uncomfortable simply because, those two times, Illya had been authorised to bug, first, Solo’s hotel room, and, in Vienna, that of his mark. Illya dutifully wrote up his report, carefully labelled the tapes, and sent them up the chain. Then, he spent the rest of the night playing chess against himself. He lost.

The morning after, in Vienna, Solo was smirking all the while as Illya tailed him after his customary breakfast. Glancing at his father’s watch, Illya realised that it was taking Solo longer than usual to vanish from his sight. Although Illya had instructions to let the American go at some point, he had enough pride to make it difficult for him — but, all things being equal, Solo should have made a run for it by now. Curiosity piqued, Illya kept trailing after him at a measured pace, careful not to get too close. Solo didn’t seem to have a destination in mind, he simply ambled across the Prater as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Illya frowned at the exaggerated swagger. Was the man trying to get himself noticed? Silently, he clucked his tongue at such recklessness. How typical of a cowboy, he thought derisively. He stopped briefly to look up at the ferris wheel towering over the city. When his eyes went searching for Solo again, he was gone. 


	3. Just Say My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya was fairly sure that Rome was when it all went to hell. (He’d be wrong.) From the beginning, he’d had a bad feeling about this mission. (He’d be right.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your words of encouragement and kudos! <3  
> It's this one and then one more chapter to go!

Illya was fairly sure that Rome was when it all went to hell. (He’d be wrong.) From the beginning, he’d had a bad feeling about this mission. (He’d be right.) It was when he sat two rows behind Solo in a nearly empty movie theatre (it was noon), for absolutely no reason he could fathom, that he found himself thinking about leaning forward. Stretching out a hand, as if to tap Solo’s shoulder. To tell him, “This mission feels wrong.” He caught himself before his upper body could even begin listing forward, but the fact that he _had to_ settled surprise so deep in his bones that he completely missed that ridiculous British mockery of a spy strangling his enemy on a train.

Solo generally refused to let premonition cloud his fundamentally optimistic outlook on life, but when he made the detour into a downtrodden-looking movie theatre, showing a horrendously dubbed popular new spy film trying to convince everybody just how glamorous the life of an agent was, and noticed, without fail, Kuryakin trailing behind him, it occurred to him that he was hitting some kind of new low. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the time to spare before his next engagement, but surely there were more enjoyable ways to spend it instead of sitting here with a silent Russian giant in his blind spot. Halfway through the movie, he found himself wondering what would happen if he turned around. Could it speak? Solo thought derisively, gnashing his own teeth at how much it grated on him that he’d never once heard the other’s voice. He’d pressed Sanders to bug the Russian’s hotel rooms, his damn shoes, if need be; only just to catch a glimpse at what the KGB was hoping to accomplish with all this. He’d been shot down, even after Vienna.

Solo had found the bug planted in Isabella’s room telephone, heard the telltale click after he’d ordered room service; and he’d known, just known, that his Russian friend had made a quick visit before he could. Sadly, sweeping for bugs before an assignation tended to tip the mark off as to his true intentions, so he had to make do. He’d felt sorry for himself for all of thirty seconds before realising that his shadow must have been listening in. Must have heard everything. He’d gotten out of bed with renewed vigor, and after breakfast he’d taken his time getting rid of his tail, instead taking a stroll through the city, his faithful shadow walking behind him at a forcibly leisurely pace. It’d had felt almost peaceful. Knowing that Kuryakin now knew a lot more about Solo’s unique qualifications than he could have ever wanted to had left Solo with a near-permanent smirk on his face and a spring in his step.

But that was Vienna, and now they were in Rome and Solo distinctly alert. He didn’t like plot holes in his missions briefs, and this one was practically doubling as Swiss cheese. Solo knew that the Russian must know, too; except perhaps Kuryakin would take it to mean that KGB intelligence on this case wasn’t as good as the CIA’s, was probably used to never knowing the full story, or any of it, when following Solo hopscotching across Europe. Solo wondered if this ever felt like babysitting to Kuryakin; and if he wasn’t being bored out of his skull. Surely he’d been expecting a dead drop, or a meeting with a contact, when Solo had ducked into the theatre. Then again, there were weeks when Solo was at home in New York, nowhere near a mission; and surely the KGB had to give Kuryakin proper operations during that time. But whenever Solo was called in again and shipped off wherever, he was there, right behind him. Curious timing, that.

Now, if terms were reversed and it was Solo’s job to watch the Red Peril currently at his back… he wasn’t sure just how bored he’d be. If at all.

It was two days later when both their suspicions were confirmed; and Solo learnt that it was, in fact, possible to get the drop on a thief in the act of stealing — while Illya learnt that ‘not too close’ in this case really should have meant staying in his hotel room and playing chess.

As it happened, they both came to within a minute of each other, shaking their heads to clear the narcotic fog, adjusting to the dim lights of the dingy room they’d been thrown into. Together. Blinking at each other, they just sat for a moment, trying to process the how and the why and the—

“Shit,” Solo swore, sitting back on his haunches and looking at the ceiling. “I was right.“

“Brief was no good,” came a rumbling reply from the other side of the room, and Solo briefly forgot the what and the who and just _stared_. At his mute reaction, the Russian went on, “I had a feeling it wasn’t just KGB intel that was… spotted.”

“Spotty,” Solo corrected automatically, but with no particular inflection of mockery or malice. He was too busy filing away all the details his addled brain could grasp about the Russian’s accent, the deep register of his voice, the roughness in it no doubt stemming from a parched throat after being chloroformed. If this surprised the Russian, he didn’t show it.

“Spotty,” he merely repeated, nodding. He dusted himself off and stood, giving Solo a few moments to compose himself away from prying eyes. Prying, very blue, very perceptive eyes, going by the way the Russian’s gaze was now flickering towards his shoulder. “You’re hurt.”

It wasn’t a question. Solo responded by carefully shifting the muscles in his upper back, then lifting his arm and rotating his shoulder. He suppressed a wince when upward movement was blocked and pain stabbed through him.

“Nothing too bad,” he replied, ignoring the quiet huff Kuryakin gave. “I’ll live,” he persisted.

“Shoulder, yes. Escape ruined because you can’t fight, not much.”

“Oh good, you’re a cheery one,” Solo flashed Kuryakin a purposely obnoxious grin, which turned alarmingly more genuine when the Russian merely rolled his eyes.

“Get off the floor,” he gestured for Solo to get up, but didn’t hold out a hand to help, which Solo appreciated for some reason. (Chloroform really didn’t agree with him at all.) He followed the other man’s example and dusted himself off after heaving himself up, silently thanking his legs for not making him stumble.

What now?, he wanted to ask but didn’t, knowing neither of them would ask that question before assessing their situation in its entirety themselves, not wanting to give anything away. Carefully shifting, Solo knew immediately that whoever had taken them had found his set of lock picks and taken it off him. Dammit. Before he could decide whether to mention it, the choice was made for him by their captors flinging the door open, guns forward, the apparent leader waving the leather etui around with some impression of glee on his ugly face.

“Safe cracker, eh?” he sneered, jerking his head towards the door without waiting for an answer. At gunpoint, Solo and Kuryakin exchanged a speculative glance before they were herded down a narrow corridor.

Half an hour later, they were speeding away from the scene of an apparent mafia clan dispute on a vespa Illya had commandeered, Solo holding on behind him.

“Next time, I’m driving,” he heard Solo grunt when he cut a corner and almost tipped them over. “This isn’t a motorcycle, Kuryakin!” At the sound of his name falling from Solo’s lips, Illya nearly swerved into oncoming traffic.

It wasn’t until Solo was on the plane back to New York that he realised that they hadn’t bothered introducing themselves.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, Napoleon dragged Illya along on a not-date to see From Russia With Love (released in October 1963). Ain’t gonna let anybody harsh his vibes, man.


	4. Wanna Feel Your Warm Embrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his next mission — to Munich — it took Solo all of thirty seconds to realise he was alone. Two minutes later, he knew they hadn’t even sent a substitute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this is where it all becomes the song's fault... I was listening to it on repeat and thinking about Illya and Solo, and thinking... "What a lovely OTP... wouldn't it be a shame... if something... were to happen to it."  
> Meaning, if one of them had a protective streak a mile wide, and no. chill. whatsoever.

On his next mission — to Munich — it took Solo all of thirty seconds to realise he was alone. Two minutes later, he knew they hadn’t even sent a substitute.

Two days later, he was shot in the leg, and as he dragged himself towards the nearest hospital to bribe a surgeon, cursing all the way, he knew this wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been so distracted in the absence of his shadow.

In Moscow, Illya read the reports they’d intercepted. He read them twice. He stood from his desk, paced the room, willing himself to calm down. Thirty seconds later, he’d flipped over his desk and stood, panting, next to the wreckage. Adjusting the collar of his turtleneck, he left the small office he occupied. He went to see Oleg.

It took three weeks for Solo’s leg to heal, and only slightly longer for his pride to catch up. Four weeks after Munich, he landed at the airport in Lisbon, looking forward to spending this mission as far away from the Wall as Europe would allow. He was just about to hail a cab when a familiar figure fell into step with him along the curb outside the terminal. He came to a halt and stood, stock still. His shadow did the same.

Neither of them spoke, nor did they turn to look directly at each other. Solo waited.

“You’re favouring right leg still. Too obvious.” With that ominous remark, his shadow peeled away from him and hailed a driver from the other side of the street.

“I missed you, too,” Solo muttered sarcastically as he watched the taxi pull away. He grabbed one of his own, and didn’t order them to follow the other one. That would have been too obvious.

The next day, Solo was roaming the city, waiting to be noticed by his next mark, his step light and even. Illya nodded his approval before taking a deliberate right, making his way to the market, as Solo moved towards the harbour.

When the Lisbon mission was complete, neither of them moved out of their hotels immediately. That night, they sat outside a small restaurant, Solo drinking a solitary glass of wine and indulging in some excellent local dishes; Illya enjoying the view of the market place three tables to the right from the American. They didn’t acknowledge each other, didn’t even look the other’s way. They paid their bills and stood just as the sun set. Solo turned left, Illya right. They didn’t say goodnight.

* * *

 

Curiously enough, the Russians’ eagerness to learn something about the CIA also meant that the CIA was finding out rather a lot about the KGB. Only snippets, granted — some of the temporary aliases Kuryakin was using, ripples along the trade routes when Solo was express shipped somewhere and Kuryakin had to scramble to wrap up his own operation and catch up with him. The delays rarely amounted to more than a few hours, but they were noticeable. Especially to Solo.

London. London was special, in more ways than one. Solo had been enjoying a week off in New York when Sanders had called him in and, without further ado, turned his world on its head. He was to shadow the Russian, carefully and without ceremony. The KGB daring to come to London couldn’t mean anything good, so there was no time to waste. All in all, the mission brief was sparse, but clear. Do not engage, do not interfere. Observe, and otherwise stay out of anybody’s way.

In London, Illya missed the reflection from a sniper rifle aimed at his torso. Solo did not. Instinctively speeding up his pace, he swiftly moved through the crowd to catch up with the Russian.

A sharp whistle from the left caught Kuryakin’s attention, and as he brushed past him on the right, Solo murmured, “Windows have eyes.” He vanished from plain sight into the alley behind a bakery and didn’t stop moving until he was sure that no-one had followed _him_. Then he circled back towards Kuryakin’s hotel and paid a bookie’s runner to ask for the name he was hoping the KGB agent would be using as his alias on this mission. The boy confirmed that the gentleman had checked out only half an hour ago. In person. Knowing he could remain no longer, Solo calculated his odds in reaching his nearest safe house without delay, and disappeared.

He did not return to New York with his tail tucked between his legs, exactly, but he was fully prepared to be told that he had just scuppered the one attempt the CIA had been willing to make on Kuryakin’s life. After nearly a year of playing cat and mouse, Solo could tell Sanders’ patience was wearing thin.

They grounded Solo for three months.

Every day, Solo waited for the report pointing him to a morgue in Romania, or a shipping container in Trieste. The report never came. During the third month, Solo reached out to the man called Waverly.

* * *

 

London had been a trap, Illya had known that from the start. And yet he’d gone, as he must, hoping against hope that Solo wouldn’t be the one making sure the trap snapped shut. Illya had seen the sniper immediately, had two escape routes ready the moment a high-pitched whistle had cut through the air. Keeping his cover, he’d looked around as everyone else had done, only to feel a hand brush his shoulder and hear a familiar voice whisper in his ear. Warning him. That stupid, stubborn cowboy.

When he returned to Moscow, Oleg questioned him about how he’d got away, how he’d known when to make his exit, where to go; asking the same questions a hundred different ways, testing the integrity of the construct Illya was presenting him with.

Illya never mentioned Solo.

On his next mission, to Amsterdam, Illya was alone. And on the next. And the next.

It wasn’t until four months after London that Illya was assigned a mission to watch ‘the American’ again. In Oleg’s office, he picked up the file. His fingers were steady.

“Marseille is nice this time of year,” was all Oleg had to contribute. Illya excused himself and went back to his office, sitting down heavily at his newly replaced desk.

Marseille was the mission Solo never wanted to think about again.

Illya had been following Solo for the better part of the morning. The American had had plenty of chances to slip away into the shadows, yet he’d stayed right where Illya could see him. Illya remembered Lisbon, remembered London, and didn’t take a right when Solo took a left.

In the end, it was simple.

When Solo broke into the factory at midnight, Illya was twenty steps behind him. When Solo picked the lock to a hangar door, Illya dispatched the guard on an unscheduled patrol on the low roof above him. When Illya lost his footing on the metal made slippery by the rain and his gun dropped down the other side of the building into a scrap grinder, he patted the knife in a sheath strapped to his thigh. When Le Renard’s goons missed Illya hiding behind a stack of crates and were moving in on Solo hiding on the other side of the hangar, he knew he should have brought a back-up. Seeing only Solo’s shadow past the line of crates and red edging into his vision, he unfolded himself and slit two throats before anyone could open fire.

“Why did you do that?” Solo questioned angrily, gracelessly sinking to his knees next to the Russian agent, pushing open the black jacket. Flowers of deep red blood were blooming through the fabric of Kuryakin's shirt. “We could have boxed them in, you open fire from back there, I finish off the rest of them.”

“Lost gun,” Illya ground out between teeth clenched against the pain.

“There would have been another way!”

"No. Solo.”

“Why?” Solo demanded, pressing his hands to the wounds on Kuryakin's chest, heedless of the blood staining his ungloved hands. “Illya, why?"

“Pretty little thing,” Illya mumbled and inexplicably put his hand, his huge, terrifying, beautiful hand, on Solo's cheek. “Pretty little thing like you cannot die like this in back alley.”

Solo froze. Stared at the KGB agent currently looking at him as if anything about this had ever been remotely worth it. And he knew, with chilling clarity, that Illya would never have said a word if he thought he would survive, if he seriously thought he'd have to deal with the consequences of saying something so foolish to Napoleon Solo. His shadow.

Illya was saying goodbye.

“No,” he snarled, watching Illya's eyes widen just a fraction. “And neither will you.”

* * *

 

Le Renard would be killed six months later by a British agent. Solo hadn’t stuck around to finish the job, had instead dragged Illya’s unconscious body towards the extraction point. But unlike all the other times, it hadn’t been Agent Jones waiting for him.

Illya woke, three days later, in a hospital room that didn’t look at all like the ones in Moscow or Warsaw he usually ended up in. And in Moscow and Warsaw there had never been a rumpled, curly-haired American folded into an uncomfortable chair next to his bed, either.

“Cowboy,” he rasped, shifting on the bed and wincing when the slightest movement pulled at the stitches in his chest.

Solo jerked upright as if stung with a needle. Disoriented, he shook his head, then focused his gaze on the figure on the bed. When he found Illya looking back at him, he stilled.

“How are you feeling, Peril?” he asked quietly, leaning forward.

“Had worse,” Illya rumbled back. Solo remained quiet. “What?” Illya asked, considering raising an eyebrow but deciding not to expend the energy.

“You were half-dead when I brought you here,” Solo continued just as quietly.

“Half is not full.”

“Illya…”

“What.” Illya’s eyes were drooping, but he fought to keep them open to watch the conflicting emotions on Solo’s face.

“You should rest. I’ll come back later.” Solo stood, and Illya had slipped back under before he’d left the room.

Illya didn’t pretend to understand how Solo had convinced Waverly to hide them from both the CIA and the KGB — for much of his early recovery, he didn’t understand much at all. He understood that Solo was by his side nearly every time he fought his way to consciousness during the first week after first coming to, and he understood that sometimes, a hand held his while a familiar voice read to him when everything was dark. After a week, the doctors had apparently decided to stop giving him sedatives that purposely kept him unconscious. When Solo stepped into his room that afternoon, he was wearing the blue suit he’d picked up in Rome. At the time, Illya had scoffed at the decadence. Now, it made him remember.

“ _Crime and Punishment_ , Cowboy?“ he asked, nodding towards the abandoned novel on the night stand.

Solo walked towards him, taking in Illya’s clear, alert eyes and crisp speech. The smile overtaking his face as he understood what it meant was blinding.

“Waverly gave it to me. You think he meant to give us a hint?” Solo grinned as he settled into the chair still set at an angle next to Illya’s cot. His expression grew more serious as his gaze flickered towards Illya’s chest. “The doctors say you’ll make a full recovery.“ When Illya didn’t reply, he sighed. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to get away yet.”

It was Illya’s turn to sigh. “Waverly was here hour ago. Told me where we are, who he is. Told me about U.N.C.L.E.”

Solo’s eyes snapped to his. “So soon?”

Illya smirked. “Figured I’d run away if he did not tell me.”

That surprised a laugh out of Solo. “I didn’t think he’d listen to me,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“Solo,” Illya began, but paused.

“What is it?”

Illya fought with himself, but knew it couldn’t wait. “What I said. In Marseille, in warehouse…” Again, he trailed off, cursing himself.

Cursing himself at the sad little smile that curled in the corners of Solo’s mouth. “Don’t worry, Peril, you wouldn’t be the first to change his mind. Although, to be honest, no-one’s called me pretty and then taken it back before…”

“I’m not taking it back, Cowboy,” Illya interrupted him before Solo could convince himself there was nothing to take back. Before he could convince them both.

The hopeful look in Solo’s eyes made breathing so hard Illya wondered if he’d been shot again. “Peril,” he whispered.

“I’m here, Cowboy.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Don’t be afraid_  
>  I would do anything  
> Anything  
> For you

**Author's Note:**

> I think we all know how well that's gonna go.
> 
> Love it, hate it? Please let me know in the comments!


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